


mater semper certa est

by tokyonightskies



Series: adversity builds character: uchiha-centric [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Character Death, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family, Female-Centric, Konoha Village, Politics, Uchiha Clan-centric, Uchiha Massacre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 13:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6987112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mikoto knows the black water is pure in its own way. or the rise and fall of the uchiha matriarch.</p><p>(mikoto-centric; with a yukio mishima filter)</p>
            </blockquote>





	mater semper certa est

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uchihasavior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchihasavior/gifts).



> i suppose this is very much indulgent, in a way. this is ((heavily)) inspired by yukio mishima's short story 'patriotism'. this was originally posted on my tumblr. this is dedicated to uchihasavior, who helped me struggle through this.
> 
> all flowers mentioned in this piece have a meaning in hanakotoba.

.

It’s a test. 

She carefully clips the tip of a willow branch, making it shorter than the other ones but not by much. Enough to be noticeable, asymmetric. Some strands slip loose from the bun hanging low between her shoulder blades, slide over her ear and curl along the outline of her cheekbone. It’s entirely silent in the room, aside from the soft _snip_ of her scissors; five pairs of eyes watching her expectantly, appraising her form and concentration, watching how she gently sticks the branches with their light greenish buds into the moist earth of the flower vase. 

Her mother taught her how to perform the way of the flowers when she was very young, showed by example that silence was the most important virtue of them all. _weave white roses in your hair when you meet up with the clan heir this morning, daughter-mine._ She dips the stalks of the gereba into the glass bowl of water and cuts them to the right size, shoulders straight and gaze downwards. _you should put on the yukata with the_ hyakunichisou _pattern when fugaku-san comes over this evening._ Seven willow branches that seem to reach out for the space surrounding them, three pink flowerheads caged between them. It’s a simple but effective design. Its message is to be dismissed.

“Mikoto-san.” She remains in a submissive pose to show her respect to the clanhead, “Well done.” It’s the most dismissive of compliments, but it brings her a step closer to what her father wanted for her, what both of her parents wanted for her.

From her peripheral, she looks at Fugaku– on his knees on the cushion, back straight, face stoic, but in his eyes she sees the petals of a _kuroyuri_ under the midday sun. Her lips furl into a demure, but pleased smile, and she made sure he saw.

.

Mikoto knew what the arrangement of the flowers on her wedding would be long before her aunt and mother-in-law asked.

 _Ajisai_  with petals a pale purple at the edges, _shirayuri_ whose flowerheads droop down just a bit, to the point it’s still elegant. And a stalk of lavender she keeps close to her chest, under all the layers of her white wedding kimono and all the layers of her _uchikake_ , the scent a remainder of what she means by it, a breath against her pale skin.

Her husband gives her a knowing look when he helps her undress that night, the petals crushed against her left breast, leaving smears of faint purple there. His hands are rough, his mouth hot when he touches and kisses her there, reverence and obeisance and an unholy  _want_. 

She whispers his name as if it’s the beginning of a litany, the last vowel of his name cut off when his teeth scrape over her nipple and her head bowed forwards, a tremble mastering the curve of her shoulders, a sharp exhale stuck in the open ‘o’ of her mouth. It’s the only noise she makes, aside from the movement of her unsteady feet over the floorboards.

“Mikoto.” He rumbles, nose in the valley of her breasts, his lips forcing the pronunciation of her name onto her skin.

and in that moment, she forgot what her mother taught her about desiring without looking unseemly, because she wants the imprint of her fingernails on the broad curve of his shoulders, wants to leave her mark on him, roughen him up a little and be roughened up a little in turn, wants her blood on the good linen so she can hang them out tomorrow for the whole clan to see.

Her fingers comb through his mop of thick dark hair and she smiles down at him, demurely, the flush of her cheeks a stark contrast with her pale forehead and her black strands of hair. Her throat is dry and raspy, the swipe of her tongue over her bottom lip a reflexive movement out of nervousness. Stuck in her nose, the mild fragrance of lavender, persistent and persuasive; a promise she intends to keep.

.

She settles gracefully into the role of matriarch, offers a listening ear to the woes of the elders, tends to the younglings and all their enthusiasm with patience and accepts their praise with a sense of humility that would be unbecoming were she any older. 

When members of the village council regard her or her husband or her family with any scrutiny, she straightens her posture and remembers what her mother taught her. _remember this of ikebana, the result shouldn’t be complicated, but the artist should be dedicated. and beyond anything, remain silent._

It took practice, to train the tongue with teeth until it would no longer bleed, to bow to those who think to be your betters, to come to overlook the relocation of the clan compound for the slight it actually was (although this comes later, much later). She’s learned how to wield her smile with the same expertise she would brandish a blade. If the villagers of Konoha wish to stare at her with an ounce of distrust, she will fool them in complacency. She’s unafraid of them.

.

She’s washing her hands in the sink, grinds her knuckles into the soft of her palms, rubs her palms over the back of her hands, encircles her wrists with her fingers and moves them. The water is ice-cold and where she stands, the fragrance from the soap, artificial lavender, pervades this small enclave of the kitchen powerfully. 

The bamboo framework of the door rattles when her husband forcefully slides open the door. There are no secrets between them, she knows he’s furious by the murderous pace of his step. He’s behind her in a moment, the tip of his nose buried in her hair. She feels his rushed exhale and the anger bleeding out of his posture in that one gesture.

“They are afraid of us.” Fugaku whispers against her temple before he kisses her there, his chapped lips unsoft and ungentle. 

Mikoto twines their fingers together and presses his hand low against her belly, “We will give them another reason.”

 _“I’m so proud of you.”_ Emotion thick in his voice, the palm of his hand warm against her abdomen.

She starts to rock in his embrace,  _“I know… I know.”  
_

.

Mikoto will never forget the way Fugaku smiled at his firstborn. Her husband, saturated in the insult their fellow villagers call him _evil-eyed_ , now looks at the hospital bed as if it’s an altar, his eyes alight and his features smoothened, less tired, alive.

 _Itachi._ She tastes the hope on the tip of her tongue when she pronounces her son’s name, the weight of his head a comfort against her beating heart. Hospital blankets heavy on her legs and around her waist. Sunlight streaming through the dirty-blotched window. Her fingertip stirs the feathery hairs atop his forehead. 

Her husband regards them quietly, afraid to cut apart the fragile tranquility in the hospital room. His eyes glimmer, wet. They won’t take this from her, she promises herself solemnly, nobody will ever take this from her.

.

When her son is four, Fugaku deems it necessary to teach him about life. She looks up from the kitchen table, where she’s arranging a _shouka_ for underneath the hanging scroll in the entrance hall. Memories of her own childhood flood her for a moment. While her mother taught her most about life, her father taught her the equally important lessons of death.

Battlefields are commonplace for a _shinobi_. She remembers the corpses, the almost ghastly silence that accompanied the chaotic arrangement of their enemies on the ground. One man still clinging to lifelines, his torso stabbed through multiple times, the gurgling of his raspy throat. Her father gently guiding her by the hand, giving her the kunai, showing him that the healer’s hands are the bloodiest.

Not everything is worth saving, her father told her, not unkindly, but matter-of-fact. Sometimes the most merciful solution is death. She caresses the green leaves and smoothens them into place; the tip of her tongue peeking at the corner of her mouth, swiping a wet line along the seal of her lips, tucked against the back of her teeth. 

Mikoto smiles at her husband, demurely and pleased. She says softly, “Keep him safe with you. I know you will teach him well.”

_but when she looked her son’s in the eyes that night, she knew the conclusions he drew were **wrong**. it seems he demands another approach to the basic facts of shinobi life._

.

She presses Itachi’s head to her abdomen, grounds him against the pulse that beats inside of her womb. _listen_ , she wants to say, _this is where you truly belong. with us, your family._

_you won’t ever need anyone else._

Instead, Mikoto looks up at the darkish sky and tells him her second will be born in summer.

.

Sasuke will be her firstborn’s salvation. He has to be. _He has to be._ They cannot afford to lose their clan heir to the whims and schemes of those leading the village, nor those orchestrating in the shadows. His little brother will keep Itachi firmly rooted to their clan, as he should be. 

 _(and the boys sleep together and play together and she gets pushed out of the picture, feels an interloper in their presence. a scorpion’s sting of envy as she watches her firstborn do what she is supposed to do as the boy’s mother, a poison that furls like the_ kuroyuri _petals.)_

.

Shisui is a smart boy, she thinks to herself when she invites her nephew over for a cup of tea, but not a particularly good influence on her son. Steam spouts from the cooker, but her movements are unhurried when she stands up to get it. He’s a smart boy so he will understand the significance of her invitation and of the tea ceremony in itself. 

They talk about peace and order, a subject the boy’s father was well-versed in, to the point it legitimated the clan’s suspicion of his loyalty to his own kin. And Shisui in turn is well-versed in these subjects as well. His well-willing smile doesn’t dim the wisdom in his eyes, a wisdom she sees reflected in her son’s. Steam wafts from the cooker on the counter. Her movements stilted as she stands and gets it. Still, she muses quietly as she pours the boiling water into the ceramic cup with the tea leaves, nothing good comes from something vast and boundless, everything needs to be defined, needs to be framed. Her gaze falls on the family portrait on the dresser off in the corner.

It takes two minutes for the tea to be ready. She’s accustomed to the heat of the ceramic and dutifully pours one small teacup. With her pair of wooden pliers, she then braces the cup, lifts it and pours the other one, dips the emptied cup into the light green tea until it’s wet and well-scented. She gives the other cup the same treatment and pours the tea into the glass bowl she uses for her _ikebana craft_. 

“Ah, _auntie_.” Shisui begins to comment, “You do it differently from the villagers in the tearooms.”

Mikoto tilts her head, a gracious movement accentuated by how her long hair slides down her right cheek. Her answer is calmly spoken, “This is how the Uchiha have always brewed their tea.” She pours the remaining water of the cooker over into the ceramic cup. “Didn’t you mother teach you?”

He only shakes his head and gives her an apologetic smile, a gesture out of politeness, as if he doesn’t recognize the fault in perspective that skews the picture. 

“Pay attention, Shisui.” She murmurs dutifully as she hands him his teacup, slightly wet, still so hot. It matters not to her. “Always smell your tea before you drink it.” It’s not a piece of advice, even if it’s cloaked like one.

Her smile is a tad too sharp at the edges, the warning has been given, now it must be heeded. 

.

Yamanaka’s wife congratules her on her son’s promotion to the ANBU corps when she’s buying flowers. 

“Itachi-kun is still so young. You must worry for him sometimes.” This woman says in a tone she must assume to be well-willing, to be warm-hearted.

Mikoto wants to reply that _yes, she worries, but not in the way you think._

Instead she inspects the firmness and the smoothness of the lily’s petals with her fingertips and responds kindly, “He’s always been our pride and joy.”

And if _joy_ tastes like acid on her tongue, it’s her own fault. 

Her own fault.

.

Mikoto pushes the blade in a bit deeper, listens to the spluttered, stuttered gurgles of blood bubbling up in the man’s throat. 

“You will never speak of my husband again. Never speak to him again, either.” She hisses into his ear, twists her wrist so the kunai tears his vocal cords apart. _Evil-eyed_ , she wants to scoff in derision, they have no _idea_.

It’s cold in the interrogation cell, the _bento_ box she brought for her husband forgotten on the table, the light showing how the dust floats in the air. Fugaku watches her impassively, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“Who gave him the intel?” Her question soaked in barely-squelched anger, wrinkles around her mouth.

Her husband looks her straight in the eyes and she already knows then. Mikoto leaves the kunai in the man’s throat and hides her face in her bloodied hands. It grows colder still.

Fugaku pushes himself off the wall, a casualness in his step that hides the predatory implications of his set jaw, of his squared shoulders, of his furrowed brow. “You shouldn’t have come.”

She laughs then, and it’s as harsh as a frostbite mid-winter. “I am your wife. You will not carry these burdens alone.” Her eyes are red, her cheeks are smeared red, her heart _bleeds_. It's a promise, kept close to her chest, exchanged over cups of hot sake during the wedding ceremony-- carried on for years and years.

“I know.” It’s a soft admission, the only way he can express the depth of his love for her is with gestures. Her hair pushed behind her ear, his fingertips gliding down the side of her neck. “I know.”

.

Sasuke is her firstborn’s _salvation_. Itachi would never harm him, save for his little white lies. They must burn as black on his tongue as they leave her heart razed.

But Mikoto stays silent about them, and recognizes them for what they are. He might poke his little brother’s forehead and promise _next time_ , but they’re headed towards the point of no return. All those _next times_ must stuff her son’s throat shut, a bunch of cotton wads and no one bothers to scrape them out. Silence feels much like a betrayal these days.

She scrubs at the plate a bit more furiously when the door slides closed behind him, leaving Sasuke quiet and complacent by the kind-hearted rejection. It hurts more than she’s willing to admit, that he refuses to hang at her skirts and ask for her consolation. It hurts because she hadn’t wanted this child of her to learn the silver-lined importance of silence just yet.

.

 _Shisui’s dead and they think Itachi killed him._ It’s the first time she heard him raise his voice, heard him speak when he should’ve remained silent. It’s a hard _thunk_ , the kunai lodged in their clan symbol on the wall, the echo of it resounding between her own ears from where she was standing. Mikoto doesn’t need to look at her husband to know what he’s thinking, they both _know_ , _they both know._

It’s the only test her son ever failed and it was the most important one.

.

Fugaku comes home and she greets him at the door, ready to take his coat and accompany him to the kitchen where the leftovers from dinner are ready to be heated. His expression stops her dead in her tracks, the bouquet of _tsubaki_  an afterthought. Her hands reach out to cradle them and she frets in her spot, wondering whether she should go and get a vase for them.

“Is Itachi home already?” He asks of her, forgoing any greeting.

She swallows reflexively, holding the bouquet in a loose embrace, “He’s in his room, reading.” Her answer is soft-spoken, revealing all the questions in her eyes.

“I’m going to tell him I’ll be staying in tomorrow.” Her husband sounds solemn, the dips next to his mouth more pronounced. Mikoto finds herself nodding to his words, understanding the full extent of this situation.

Her smile is gentle as she presses her nose to the flowerheads, murmuring, “You shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted too.” He replies curtly, before he chucks his sandals off and stalks away towards his son’s room.

Mikoto watches his back as he goes, feels the tears stinging in her eyes, but refuses to give into them. It must’ve been so awkward for her husband to trudge around the flower shop, to examine every flower for imperfections in color or freshness, to dally with writing a message in a language he’s not as well-versed in when the end is so close.

It’s a ghost of a smile that graces her mouth and for a moment she feels so much, too much. She laughs and she cries in the entrance hall, cradling the bouquet to her chest. All that’s left is her love for her family and the disarray of sandals on the floor.

.

She sits on her knees, head held high, hands gathered in her lap, facing the wall. It’s dark in the room, the balance between shadows and natural light broken apart from the inside out. 

“Itachi just promise me this. Take care of Sasuke.” Fugaku doesn’t mean to comfort and there’s not a person in this room who isn’t aware of the fact. 

Mikoto doesn’t comment, but acknowledges there will be no victories for anyone this day. She straightens her spine and welcomes her son’s blade. If Itachi thinks he’s doing her a kindness by killing her first, he’s sadly mistaken. For all his wisdom, it wouldn’t be the last time. He should know by now that for the Uchiha, peace has always depended on the ashes in their wake. After all Itachi himself is hellbent on setting on fire everything they’ve ever achieved, leaving only the small embers in Sasuke behind.

But, _oh_ , how her firstborn will burn his hands and heart on that fledgling fire, she muses quietly, he seeks to end his clan’s curse but only progresses it; the love of his little brother will remain a stone around his neck, dragging them both down the deep end.

_and perhaps sasuke’s firehot rage will herald a new age for the uchiha, will bring them the recognition they have so craved from the village. is it wrong for her to cling to this one sliver of hope? that the boy’s parents’ sacrifices will not have been in vain? that his happiness robbed will lead to something more, to glory perhaps._

Shallow exhale, the stab through skin, her eyes wide-open, her bottom lip trembling; she wants to reach for Fugaku’s hand but doesn’t dare. It’s a test and she will do him proud, like she always has.

. 


End file.
